


5 Times Someone Defended Thrawn's "Art Thing"

by draculard



Category: Star Wars: Thrawn Ascendancy Trilogy - Timothy Zahn, Star Wars: Thrawn Series - Timothy Zahn (2017)
Genre: Family Rivalries, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Irizi Homestead, Soldiers being dicks to each other lol, Thrawn gets bullied for being an art dweeb, Thrawn is a cool uncle who gets his niece glitter and Sharpies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:40:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26285836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: Did you enjoy that scene where Ar'alani defends Thrawn's art thing in front of the ambassador and he says, "Thank you for trying"? Do you want to read more scenes like that, but slightly to the left? This fic is for you.
Relationships: Ar'alani & Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo, Ba'kif & Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo, Che'ri & Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo, Karyn Faro & Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo, Samakro | Ufsa'mak'ro & Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo, Thalias | Mitth'ali'astov & Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo, Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo & Eli Vanto
Comments: 30
Kudos: 113





	1. Che'ri

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Ох уж это искусство!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26694394) by [Lodowiec](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lodowiec/pseuds/Lodowiec)



Che’ri was still leaning against the helm and waiting for the sparklevision to fade from her eyes when she heard what the nav officer next to her was saying.

“—heard he got reprimanded at Taharim for taking art history courses at the university in his free time,” said Senior Lieutenant Kresk. He checked the course on the display before him and snorted gently; the officer next to him was shaking her head with a hard-edged smile that Che’ri _absolutely did not like the looks of_ on her face. 

“Can’t think of anything more useless than a captain with an art history degree,” she said. 

Captain? Che’ri craned her neck to look at Thalias, who was standing off to the side with her mouth set, pretending not to hear. Were they talking about Thrawn? Surely if they were, her momish would have said something to defend him. But Thalias was just standing there, a muscle jumping in her cheek, obviously irritated but refusing to interact.

Che’ri looked back at the nav officer. Maybe Thalias couldn’t interact. Maybe as a caregiver, she wasn’t supposed to talk to the bridge crew. Or maybe it was something more subtle than that; none of Che’ri’s other caregivers had been members of one of the Nine Ruling Families, but Thalias was a Mitth — just like Thrawn — and Che’ri had noticed way back on her first-ever assignment that officers were always peculiarly formal around each other when they came from the same families. It was like they had to pretend to hate each other just so other officers wouldn’t accuse them of favoritism. 

“Seriously, there’s a reason they don’t give art classes at Taharim,” Kresk said. 

“Wonder how many lessons he skipped to go to them,” said the other officer. 

“Military etiquette, for sure,” said Kresk.

“Political science,” said the other officer.

“Tactics,” said Kresk. “Did you hear about the way he handled those Lesser Space pirates?” 

And just as he opened his mouth to add another insult to the list, Che’ri turned to both of them and said,

“Are you talking about Senior Captain Thrawn?”

The officers went silent, their faces like stone. It wasn’t just them, either — all around the bridge, conversation stopped, as if everyone had been secretly listening in and laughing along. Che’ri stared Kresk down, waiting for him to answer, but after a long moment, he just shifted his eyes over her shoulder and said,

“Caregiver, I think the sky-walker might need a break.”

Dread and anger both spiked inside Che’ri, making her stomach flip. She tensed, waiting for Thalias to lead her away, but Thalias said nothing. It was only a matter of time, though, so Che’ri hastened to add,

“Because pretty much the smartest person here is Senior Captain Thrawn. Maybe he’s never explained his art thing to you because he knows you’re too dumb to get it.”

She felt Thalias stiffen behind her; when the caregiver's hand fell on her shoulder, Che’ri ducked out of it, relishing the wooden mask Kresk’s face had become.

“And he’s not just smarter than you,” she said. “He’s nicer. He gave me two whole packs of graph markers. Including sparkle-markers and metallic markers. So I’d take him as captain over you any day.”

Thalias’s hand closed on her shoulder again, this time just firm enough for Che’ri to consider herself warned. She turned away from Kresk in a flounce, unwilling to let him see how hard she was blushing after-the-fact. She hoped Thalias couldn’t feel her shaking from nerves; she’d never talked back to a bridge officer before.

“Come, Che’ri,” Thalias murmured, guiding her away from the helm and to the bridge door. Che’ri allowed herself to be led without complaint. She could hear the officers starting to murmur again, some of them openly wondering what was wrong with the sky-walker, others picking up the same conversations she’d interrupted a moment before.

On her way out, Che’ri almost bumped right into another officer. She stepped back, scowling rather than apologize, and glanced up to see Thrawn himself staring down at her. His face was impossible to read, but if he’d been waiting right outside the door, Che’ri realized with a surge of mortification, he must have heard the entire thing. 

“Captain,” said Thalias, stopping Che’ri with a squeeze of her hand.

“Caregiver,” Thrawn replied, but his eyes were locked on Che’ri. After a long moment, his lips twitched in what may have been a smile and he leaned down. In a conspiratorial whisper, he said, “Thank you, Che’ri. Let me know if you run out of sparkle-markers.”

Che’ri’s eyes widened. “You’ll get me more?”

“I will personally ensure that supply puts the order in at once,” Thrawn said.


	2. Ba'kif

“You disapprove,” said Senior Captain Thrawn.

The aide didn’t respond right away; he knew that if he waited a moment before looking up from questis, it would make the well-practiced look of disdain on his face even more stinging. He eyed the healing lines on Thrawn’s throat pointedly before he answered. 

“It’s not my place to disapprove of the General’s whims,” the aide said, laying extra emphasis on _whims_. The obtuse man across from him didn’t even seem to notice; his eyes shifted to General Ba’kif’s closed office door, but his expression didn’t change. 

“Every officer has the right to disapprove,” he said mildly, “so long as he follows all lawful orders promptly and without complaint.”

The aide’s eye twitched at that. _Thrawn_ was going to lecture him about lawful orders? _Thrawn_?!

 _Some people,_ the aide thought, trying not to huff his exasperation out. _The audacity. The nerve._

He tried to cool himself down, burying his nose in his questis and trying to look busy. Thrawn, if he had even half a brain, would notice the tension in the air and be wise enough not to break the silence. 

But apparently, Thrawn didn’t even have half a brain.

“Why do you disapprove?” he asked in the same courteous tone as before. As if the aide would be fooled by a polite tone — he knew when he was being mocked. Steaming, he glanced up at Thrawn and bit out the words,

“I disapprove, Senior Captain, because you are a liberal arts major fumbling his way through the ranks with less and less success as time goes by. The more chances General Ba’kif gives you, the more you make him and yourself look like a fool. I see no reason why this mission should be any different.”

Thrawn’s only reaction was to delicately raise an eyebrow. “I was under the impression this mission was to analyze the remnants of a refugee ship,” he said. 

The aide turned back to his questis, biting his tongue and shaking his head. 

“The refugees themselves have been destroyed, as have their navigation logs,” said Thrawn. “Thus, the only way to track them back to their home system is through detailed analysis of the ship’s design, their clothing, their furniture and utensils, and artwork they may have—”

“Did art analysis help you with the Lioaoins?” asked the aide, his voice sounding calmer than he felt. He gestured to Thrawn’s damaged throat and watched a muscle tighten there. “Did it help you with the Vagaari or the intruders from Lesser Space?”

Thrawn looked away, avoiding the aide’s eyes. Finally — finally! — he seemed resigned to silence. _As well he should be,_ the aide thought. One would think his arrogance would have subsided at least somewhat after he caused his own brother’s death, but—

“Senior Captain Thrawn?” said a smooth voice behind them. The aide jumped and glanced up to see General Ba’kif standing in the open door to his office. Thrawn looked up, his expression now back in neutral, and met Ba’kif’s eyes. “A moment, please,” Ba’kif said, holding out his hand to stop Thrawn from standing.

Then he turned to face his wide-eyed aide.

“That sort of behavior is unacceptable to _any_ member of the Chiss Expansionary Defense Fleet,” said General Ba’kif, his voice harder and icier than the aide had ever heard it. “Senior Captain Thrawn has proved his ability more times than you can count; he certainly does not need to prove it to _you_.”

The aide blinked, opened his mouth, and realized a defense would be futile. 

“Get back to work,” Ba’kif told him when he closed his mouth again. A look of disgust, brief but cutting, flashed across his face before he smoothed it away. Turning back from the aide, he greeted Thrawn with a grave nod.

“Come inside, Senior Captain,” he said. “We have much to discuss.”


	3. Thalias

“You’re kidding me,” said the lieutenant, his voice flat. 

The quartermaster had more control, but Thalias could hear the undertone of derision in his voice. “Not at all. The _exact_ same ceremonial dress robes worn by university art masters on Csilla.”

The lieutenant scoffed and shook his head. “I’d heard he went there masquerading as _Art Master Svorno_ , but I assumed it was all just petty gossip.”

“There’s no need for petty gossip with Thrawn,” said the quartermaster. “He gives us plenty of material to work with without making things up.”

Thalias sat quietly at her table in the galley, face tingling with a mix of embarrassment and anger. Part of it was that she’d found Thrawn’s performance as Art Master Svorno just as cringeworthy as the officers opposite her clearly did; unlike them, however, she’d seen how well it had worked — how easily he’d manipulated Qilori and taunted Yiv.

“Just an excuse to do his art thing,” said the lieutenant dismissively, taking a sip of caf. 

“It’s embarrassing,” the quartermaster groused. “Having a hobby is one thing, but it’s not just a hobby with him — it’s an obsession. Remember the aliens from Lesser Space? The smugglers?”

Thalias’s ears perked up. She’d heard other officers mention the humans obliquely, always with knowing glances and the occasional eye roll, but she’d never been able to finagle much information about who they were. 

“Art lessons with the female,” the lieutenant said with a scoff. “Yes, I remember.”

Thalias’s cheeks burned. 

“Frankly, I don’t think he even cared about the female,” said the quartermaster. “Does that make it better or worse? He just wanted an excuse to rant about—” He made a vague gesture. “—paintings, art history, whatever.”

Before the lieutenant could argue, the quartermaster pressed on.

“And you know he’s making all that up, about how he can see things in the art that no one else can see.”

“Oh, trust me, I know,” said the lieutenant sourly. “He’s full of shit.”

“He’s had an awful lot of lucky guesses, then,” Thalias blurted. The words came out before she could stop herself, and her voice was horribly, embarrassingly loud. She hoped futilely that the officers wouldn’t hear her, but they turned her way at once. 

“What?” said the quartermaster, his voice raised even louder than Thalias’s.

“It’s the caregiver,” the lieutenant whispered to him.

“Yes, I can see who it is.” He made direct eye contact with Thalias, silently challenging her, and then let his gaze drop pointedly to the Mitth family crest on her shoulder, as if that made her opinion worthless. “Something to add, Caregiver?” he asked. 

Thalias cleared her throat, mentally cringing at how uncertain it made her sound. “I said he’s had an awful lot of lucky guesses, if you’re right,” she said. 

The lieutenant, emboldened by his superior’s dismissal of Thalias, shot her a contemptuous look. “And what would you know?” he asked. “You haven’t even been onboard for a full month yet.”

“Well, I was planet-side with him,” Thalias pointed out. “I went undercover with him when he was playing Art Master Svorno — did you read the report?”

The quartermaster’s face darkened.

“No matter,” Thalias said. She turned back to her food with false bravado, picking through it to disguise the way her hands shook from the confrontation. “Perhaps you should sometime,” she added. “It might change your point of view.”

She was dimly aware of them staring at her and did her best to ignore it. When they stood — first the quartermaster and then the lieutenant — she refused to look up, telling herself that they were just walking away.

Instead, a moment later, the quartermaster dropped into the empty seat beside her and leaned close, invading her personal space.

“I knew you were undercover with him, actually,” he said calmly. “I heard you played his slave.”

Thalias felt her face warm again. She kept her eyes on her food. 

“Trust me when I say that nobody here is surprised that you of all people would defend him,” the quartermaster said. He reached forward, moving her plate out of her reach and leaned even closer. “In fact,” he said, “from what I’ve heard—”

“Quartermaster Presk.”

The voice was mild but commanding, drawing everyone’s attention to the galley’s front hatch. Thrawn stood just inside the doorway, his hands clasped behind his back and a polite, calm expression on his face.

“You’re wanted in Supply,” Thrawn said, walking toward them at a sedate pace. He maintained eye contact with Thalias as the quartermaster reluctantly stood. “Lieutenant Khrill, back to your station,” Thrawn said.

Thalias waited, her cheeks still burning with embarrassment and a low level of anxiety as the two men walked away. Only when they were both gone did Thrawn tilt his head and change his expression, looking at her with something like concern.

“Don’t listen to them,” he said, and for just a moment Thalias saw the same kind cadet who’d once knelt before her and comforted her while she was crying. He lifted her plate off the edge of the table where the quartermaster had dragged it and deposited it back in front of her. 

“I don’t suppose _you_ listen to them,” Thalias said.

He shot her a quick, soft smile at that. “I’ve learned to tune them out. But thank you for intervening nonetheless. It’s always a relief to find an ally in your corner.”

Thalias nodded and stared at her plate, her appetite completely erased by the confrontation. She waited for Thrawn to leave so she could throw it away.

Instead, he sat across from her, a hesitant but bright expression on his face that reminded Thalias of a shy wolphem pup begging to play.

“Did you _really_ like Art Master Svorno?” he asked.


	4. Samakro

The observation room was the only place one could reliably find Thrawn — he was there more often than he was on the bridge and the Springhawk was so small that even the captain didn’t have his own office, as Samakro had gradually learned. Part of it was just Thrawn’s hands-off style of leadership; he showed trust in his junior officers by leaving the bridge in their hands, refusing to micro-manage them throughout their shifts — something Samakro had at first seen as laziness but slowly came to appreciate as time went on.

The other part of it — the part Samakro didn’t care to think about as much — was that, despite their successful missions the past few months, the bridge crew still didn’t quite trust _Thrawn_. Many of the officers who’d been with him during the Vagaari incident had since been transferred to other ships; the ones who stayed behind either viewed Thrawn’s actions negatively or weren’t sure what had happened at all, and had only the unclassified news reports to go by.

The observation room was almost always empty; Samakro couldn’t tell if this was why Thrawn chose to study there, or if he had the cause and effect flipped — if the observation room was always empty _because_ Thrawn chose to study there.

Either way, when he reached the corridor and found a group of enlisted men chatting outside, he nearly froze with surprise.

They didn’t see him; he approached slowly, not wanting to trigger salutes or, even worse, a shout of “Attention on deck!” As he got closer, he could make out every word they were saying — they weren’t exactly making an effort to lower their voices.

“Yes, Ensign,” said one of the men in an ugly, nasal impersonation of a Rentor accent. “But if you look more _closely_ at the painting, what do you see? Observe!”

He snapped his wrist toward the wall, indicating an imaginary painting. Samakro halted, anger swelling in his chest. The soldier’s posture was exaggeratedly confident, his gestures lazy, his god-awful accent horribly recognizable; even if he hadn’t been talking about art, Samakro would have known he was doing an impression of Thrawn. He edged closer to the group, so angry that he only vaguely heard the soldier’s words as he approached.

“—but from the color purple which so permeates the painting,” said the soldier, “it is _elementary_ to deduce that this particular culture values fighting with sticks, and so it is clear to me they will attack with a V-formation, and — oops, what’s that, Lieutenant? They attacked in an abbreviated _pincer_ movement?” He lifted a hand to his ear, putting on a puzzled expression. “They’ve taken out the Syndic’s private ship?”

Through the open doorway to the observation room, Samakro saw Thrawn himself, only a few meters away from the gaggle of soldiers. His face was pinched, his eyes fixed on his questis, his shoulders somewhat hunched. The signs of discomfort were subtle, maybe even unnoticeable to the soldiers impersonating him outside — but Samakro took one look and knew that Thrawn could hear every word. Thrawn stared blankly at his questis, clearly incapable of reading anything, but still studiously pretending the conversation outside was inaudible to him.

Taking a quick, calming breath, Samakro stepped around the soldier doing the terrible Rentor accent and watched smiles fade all around the group as they recognized him.

Silence. No salutes. No “attention on deck.” Samakro looked each soldier in the eye, taking care to pointedly shift his gaze down to their nametags. He didn’t bother to hide his scowl when he faced the impersonator.

“Wait for me in the command suite, Midshipman,” he said, his voice icy.

The soldier’s faux-confident posture sagged. His face was pale. Samakro brushed past him without another word, not waiting to see if they would disperse — he knew they would, as soon as he stepped into the observation room. He hit the door release as he walked through, closing the hatch behind him, and only when it clicked shut did Thrawn glance up from his questis, a look of muted anxiety and gratitude on his face. 

“Mid Captain,” he said levelly.

“Senior Captain,” Samakro greeted, feeling his anger ebb and cool, turning into something he couldn’t quite identify. He watched Thrawn, who seemed to be studying him in turn; after a long moment, Thrawn’s features smoothed out and all traces of emotion were deliberately erased.

“How can I help you?” he asked, returning to his questis. His voice was cool and professional, his posture subtly relaxed, as if the impersonation truly didn’t bother him. Or as if he’d heard it all before, and had been more worried about Samakro’s reaction than what the soldiers had to say.

Looking at Thrawn’s perfectly blank face, Samakro found he couldn’t even remember why he came. 


	5. Ar'alani

A good Irizi never insulted a guest. Unfortunately, it seemed like no one had ever bothered to tell that to Ziara’s uncle Zirfan. The moment she came through the door with Thrawn in tow, Zirfan’s lips curled into a snobby little sneer, and that expression didn’t change once for the rest of the night.

Thrawn, of course, hardly seemed to react at all. When Zirfan found them in Grandfather’s gallery, Thrawn turned to him without hesitation — although Ziara knew he must have noticed Zirfan’s hostility, and most people would subsequently avoid Zirfan like the plague.

“Aristocra,” said Thrawn cordially, with a little bow. Zirfan didn’t return the gesture.

“What accent is that, Commander?” he asked.

“Junior Captain,” Ziara corrected him.

“Thearterra?” Zirfan continued as though he hadn’t heard her. He raised an eyebrow. “Jamiron?”

“Close,” said Thrawn, pretending not to notice the insult. “Rentor.”

“Excuse me, you said _Rhigar_?” asked Zirfan, as if he hadn’t quite heard correctly. He cupped a hand to his ear. “I’m sorry, lad, it’s just the accent is so thick, it’s difficult to—”

“Rentor,” said Ziara, her voice firm, her tone as crisp and clipped as Thrawn’s was. He’d learned to mimic her accent perfectly when they were at Taharim, and he’d been doing so excellently all night, despite Zirfan’s petty jabs. “Captain Thrawn is from Rentor.”

“Hm,” said Zirfan, his tone making it clear that he thought this was a shame. He looked Thrawn up and down in thinly-disguised disapproval and then turned to face the Avidichian painting Thrawn had been studying moments before. “Of course, I’m not surprised to find you here,” he said, his voice slipping into something more outwardly polite. “The Irizi have been keeping close tabs on your career, Thrawn, ever since you nearly derailed Ziara’s.”

Thrawn said nothing, and Ziara was confident that he knew her career had been nowhere close to derailment over the so-called cheating at Taharim, so she didn’t say anything easier. Zirfan gave them a beat of silence to respond, and then went on.

“An art history scholar in command of his own ship,” he said softly. “Remarkable, isn’t it? Although…” He cocked his head, staring at the painting as though some element confused him. Thrawn shared a dry look with Ziara at the Aristocra’s obvious play-acting. “...I was under the impression you had a rather high-level hearing today in Csaplar, is that correct?”

This time, the beat of silence he gave them was considerably more tense. Ziara felt herself gearing up, adrenaline spiking inside her as though she were going into battle. Of all the things for Zirfan to bring up — today of all days, when the wound was so fresh —

“That’s correct,” said Thrawn softly.

“Ah,” said Zirfan, voice crisp. He glanced at Ziara and raised an eyebrow. “And the outcome? Another speedy promotion for you, Junior Captain?”

Thrawn was just a little bit too slow to respond, but his voice was even and unconcerned when he finally spoke. “No promotion,” he said. “Although three representatives pushed for it, the committee could not come to an agreement. Some pushed for demotion or general discharge instead.”

“Well, you can’t win them all,” said Zirfan, his commiserating tone coming out honeyed and sickly to Ziara’s ears. “At least you still have your command.”

The silence dragged on. Ziara bit the inside of her cheek to prevent herself from staring daggers at her uncle. Thrawn, for his part, kept his face carefully blank and his posture relaxed.

“What’s the name of your ship again?” Zirfan prodded, apparently disappointed by the lack of reaction. 

“It was the _Boco,_ ” said Thrawn. “A patrol ship.” Then, because Zirfan obviously wasn’t going to let the matter drop, “It is no longer under my command. I have been transferred instead to Senior Captain Ziara’s bridge crew aboard the _Parala._ ”

He gestured to Ziara as she spoke; Zirfan’s face darkened a bit, though surely he must have known this as well if he already knew Thrawn had been removed from command. He rallied himself quickly.

“Well, perhaps it’s for the best,” he said, his voice bright. “A little more training, a little more experience — tell me, Thrawn, have you ever considered secondary training?”

Oh no. Ziara knew where this was going. She watched as Thrawn blinked, studying Zirfan’s face.

“Secondary training?” he said blankly.

“Well…” Zirfan half-turned and indicated the painting behind him. “Art’s all well and good, but it’s not the sort of track that gets you into command. Now, most cadets at Taharim go for something more challenging, something which sharpens their minds as well as their skills. Ziara, for example, is already a Senior Captain, and _she_ studied—”

“War strategy,” Ziara cut in, her voice cool. “As did Thrawn. Taharim does not have an art history track; data concerning Thrawn’s so-called art major are nothing more than rumors, Uncle, and I’m disappointed to learn that someone on your staff has been deliberately misinforming you. Perhaps with a bit of joint effort from Thrawn and I, we can determine precisely who it is.” She paused, giving him time to speak. When he didn’t take the chance, she added, “If you wish it, that is.”

“No,” said Zirfan, his voice soft but not submissive. He favored Thrawn with a strange look, his eyes glittering almost dangerously. “That won’t be necessary. Thank you, Ziara.”

“The offer stands,” said Ziara. Straightening her spine, she said, “It may interest you to know that Thrawn’s marks in war strategy were high above the Academy’s high-water point. That includes comparisons to my own grades, naturally.”

Looking like he’d swallowed an entire bowl of sourfruit, Zirfan gave her a brief nod.

“Of course,” he said. “Well, I do regret cutting our meeting short, Ziara, but I have a conference to attend in Csaplar before the night is out. I hope to see you again soon.” He nodded to Thrawn. “And your guest as well.”

They murmured their goodbyes. When the door to the gallery had closed behind Zirfan, Thrawn and Ziara turned back to the Avidichian painting. While he examined the artwork, she examined him, searching for any signs of irritation or distress.

She found nothing. When Thrawn finally broke the silence, it was with a quiet sigh that she couldn’t read.

“Why does everyone think I’m an art major?” he muttered.


	6. Eli & Faro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...and one time they didn't.

_Commander Vanto's shoulders stiffen. His facial heat increases in high spots around the cheekbones before fading abruptly. His stance holds perhaps anger, perhaps indecision._

"Not that I'm disparaging you, Admiral," said Grand Admiral Possk, turning to face Thrawn. A self-satisfied smirk played across his lips and he took a casual sip of cognac. "The Imperial Navy can be a cruel beast, especially to the..." His eyes scanned up and down Thrawn's body, lingering with no subtlety on his blue skin and red eyes. "...non-traditional," he finished.

"Indeed," said Thrawn.

_Commander Faro's face remains flushed, her shoulders hunched forward and her muscles tight. Her lower eyelids twitch upward and stay there. Her posture indicates restrain._

Possk studied Thrawn, searching — evidently — for another way to get under his skin, since insulting his talents and implying special treatment hadn't worked.

"I've heard you have a penchant for art," he said finally, his voice neutral.

There was no reason to deny it. Thrawn inclined his head somewhat.

"Fleet Admiral Donassius told me you've been known to spend hours in study before battle," said Possk. He gave Thrawn time to confirm or perhaps justify his actions. When Thrawn stayed silent, Possk said, "Do you think that's the best use of your time?"

Beside Thrawn, Faro and Vanto both stiffened, taking offense on his behalf.

"Studying artwork can often lead to a more thorough understanding of a culture's tactics," Thrawn said mildly. "The two are frequently intertwined. Perhaps Fleet Admiral Donassius can also testify to the efficacy of my studies at the Battle of Scrim Island."

"Hm."

Possk's eyes flattened. His lips became a thin line. On either side of Thrawn, Faro and Vanto relaxed slightly. Then, with a slight, dry smile and another sip of cognac, Possk glanced away.

"That explains your success at Batonn," he said casually. "Without your study of art, who knows how many Rebels would have escaped?"

Thrawn's face gave nothing away. He inclined his chin slightly, acknowledging Possk's statement but not agreeing with it — not disagreeing, either. The mention of Batonn was deliberate and entirely too fresh; it opened a pit in his memory that he would rather not address, a pit filled with civilian bodies and Nightswan's recovered corpse. Disguised as a compliment, Possk's statement dug at everything Thrawn viewed as a failure about Batonn without addressing any of it aloud. The violence of the deaths, the loss of a potential ally and valuable mind, the needless slaughter of 30,000 civilians — he could tell from the way Faro stiffened and Vanto drew in a breath that they understood exactly what Possk was trying to say.

He'd been dealt similarly hurtful blows before — far worse blows, in fact, and he'd dealt with them with the same grace. The incidents with the Lioaians and the Vagaari had both been thrown in his face from time to time, so he could hardly be said to _flinch_ when Possk named Batonn. He sipped his wine and accepted a change of subject when a Senator joined their group, oblivious to the harsh atmosphere or perhaps choosing to ignore it.

But in the past, there had always been someone — Ar'alani or Thrass or Ba'kif, Samakro or Thalias later on, even _Che'ri_ — to speak up on his behalf. He'd never quite learned to _expect_ it, but he'd appreciated it each time one of them stepped forward.

Casually, he glanced at Faro, then at Vanto, his evaluating gaze too quick for either of them to notice. Faro's face had paled; Vanto's had flushed again. They listened to the Senator as she spoke, but their taxed posture indicated two things above all: relief and shame. They hadn't spoken up, hence the shame; they hadn't been reprimanded for doing so, hence the relief.

Thrawn didn't blame them. The Imperial Navy was not kind to commanders who chose to correct Grand Admirals. In staying silent, both of them had made the right decision. Their objective was not to protect him, but to protect themselves and their careers. In that case, the wisest tactical decision was to say nothing at all.

There was nothing he appreciated more in a friend and colleague than the ability to make wise tactical decisions, he told himself. Then, when he found this wasn't quite true, he reconsidered and amended:

There was nothing more he _needed_. Faro and Vanto had done all they could do.


End file.
